The Bayān-e-Ghālib Show: The master returns to Delhi

I have blogged about our Bayān-e-Ghālib show twice already, and some of you have surely read those accounts. Others interested may see the references at the bottom.

 

Briefly, in a world drowning in noise, where poetry gasps for breath, a team of Lucknowites dared to dream—not a quiet mehfil (assemblage), but a full-blown spectacle. Not just a recital, but a sensory celebration of the greatest Urdu poet to have ever lived and, of course, wandered the lanes of Delhi—Mirzā Asadullāh Khān Ghālib. The Bayān-e-Ghālib show was born of audacity—to let his verses come alive through khutūt, sur, and raqs (letters, musical notes, and dance), and to resound with the fire of storytelling. Not just the master’s andaaz-e-bayān (style of narration), but bayān with andaaz by the troupe. It turned out to be not merely Ghālib in paper and ink—it became Ghālib on stage, alive in music, motion, and magic.

 

And a recap, a glimpse into the spectacle:

 

Narration & Recitation: A gripping script weaving Ghālib’s wit, wisdom, and wounds into a living portrait, drawn from his letters and poetry.

Poetry & Ghazals: Verses eternal, sung with soul—each couplet dripping with meaning.

Kathak Dance: Ghazals not just heard, but felt—through pirouettes and expressive grace.

Music: A quartet of soul—sarangi sighs, tabla roars, harmonium blooms, and the synthesizer weaves magic—breathing life into every word.

 

After winning hearts in Lucknow (twice) and Hyderabad, the next stop had to be Delhi—the beloved city of the master himself. With hearts pounding and hopes high, we locked in Bayān-e-Ghālib for 16th May 2025 at the most poetic of venues: Aiwaan-e-Ghālib, to raise the curtain on a show already seasoned on the stages of Lucknow and Hyderabad. But fate had other plans. As our armed forces stood tall against a rogue neighbour, we chose silence over stagecraft—postponing the show in solidarity with the nation.

 

Then, history turned. Victory arrived—not just on the battlefield but in spirit. And with it came a deeper resolve: to celebrate the soul of a nation where Ghālib could write in Urdu and Persian, sip liquor, challenge divinity—and still belong with dignity and splendour.

And so we returned—not with fanfare, but with firaaq and fankāri (assiduous quest and artistic finesse) on 13th June 2025, at Aiwaan-e-Ghālib, Delhi. But this was Delhi—city of lovers, rebels, and poets. A city Ghālib  never truly left, and which never left Ghālib.

 

It turned out to be not a mere performance; it became a pilgrimage. The Delhi audience, steeped in sher-o-sukhan (poetry and literature), is no crowd—it is a chorus. We had come not to perform at them, but with them—in collective madness, in shared love for the poetry of Mirza. And the response far exceeded our expectations. Some four hundred connoisseurs of verse and grace filled the hall, and as the last strains ebbed, the entire audience stood in ovation—an overwhelming tribute that felt like Delhi itself had applauded.

 

Two things rankled, though.

 

First, it was very saddening to note that the government funding of the Ghālib Institute has been stopped in recent years. I do not know the reason. But if it is only because the institute’s work is not in line with the present-day political and social discourse, it is shameful. Is this how the syncretic culture of our great country is going to be destroyed? Will the legacy of greats like the master be forsaken in the mistaken belief that it represents the followers of a particular religion?

 

Second, the way press and media ignored the show. We had been fortunate to receive some great coverage in print and digital media in Lucknow and Hyderabad. But in Delhi—perhaps owing to it being the seat of power—our sincere journalist friends seemed helpless, presumably because their management would perhaps look askance at anything to do with something which, sadly, to them, seemed to glorify a particular faith.

 

Well, it is for us to take it in our stride and move on. What next? Mumbai, perhaps. In any case, in Ghālib's own classic verse—perfect for a journey that pauses, only to gallop again:

 

हज़ारों ख़्वाहिशें ऐसी कि हर ख़्वाहिश पे दम निकले

बहुत निकले मिरे अरमान लेकिन फिर भी कम निकले

Hazāroñ ḳhvāhisheñ aisī ki har ḳhvāhish pe dam nikle

bahut nikle mire armān lekin phir bhī kam nikle

(ḳhvāhisheñ: wishes, desires, dam: breath, armān: longing, eagerness. Literal meaning: I had thousands of yearnings such that over each of them I would die, or my breath would spurt forth; many of these desires were fulfilled yet so many remained unaddressed.)

 

I conclude with apologies to the poet, this hypercorrected, or rather inversed, version of a famous sher of Bismil Saeedi,

 

किया तबाह तो लखनऊ ने भी बहुत बिस्मिल

मगर ख़ुदा की क़सम दिल्ली ने लूट लिया

Kiyā tabāh to Lakhnau ne bhī bahut Bismil

magar ḳhudā kī qasam Dillī ne luuT liyā

(Tabāh: ruined. Lucknow has ravaged us immensely but I swear on the divine, Delhi has absolutely plundered us.)

...

 

References:

 

The blog after 1st Lucknow and Hyderabad shows

https://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2025/01/the-bayan-e-Ghālib -show-kahte-hain-ki.html

 

The blog after 2^nd Lucknow show and before the Delhi show

https://anindecisiveindian.blogspot.com/2025/05/the-bayan-e-Ghālib -show-encore-at.html